Last Moments
by Mademoiselle Eva
Summary: Who are you? Well, that doesn't matter... not when your life will be over soon, and your last moments are spent with a madman ?  in red.  Second person pov


Hey all, Eva here. I'm having fun with second person POV again, and decided to try writing so that you, whoever you might be, would be able to place yourself in the characters shoes. Heh- like you'd want to, in this case. Please enjoy, rate and review!

You are a nobody. Perhaps you're offended by the term, but you are; you are a regular nobody of London in 1888, anno domini- in the year of our Lord.

Unfortunately for you, no Lord is to be found. You look in the window of a regular store as you make your way home from whatever it was you were doing that day. You have just left a store where you bought some groceries for your family. Yes, you have a family; a spouse and two young children, a daughter and a son, sweet and wonderful children both. Your family has a nice amount of money and you keep your house running.

This store you're facing now is a toy store, and you realize your daughter's birthday is soon. You contemplate going in and getting her the latest Funtom rabbit - she does so love those Funtom rabbits, after all. Maybe you'll talk about it with your spouse first. You nod, deciding that's the best course of action, and begin on your way again.

Perhaps if you had gone in and spent the few precious minutes to buy the rabbit, the robber wouldn't have grabbed you and pulled you into the alley, a knife pressed to your throat. Perhaps you would even be home now, playing with your dear daughter and son, instead of slowly bleeding; gasping for breath.

You praise God as a figure comes into the alleyway, sure that it's a person come to save you. But alas, you are wrong. This person is easily the oddest person you've ever seen. You cannot even tell what gender they are, just that their hair is unnaturally red, the same bright crimson that he or she wears on their jacket, which is a ladies jacket, you think, crimson and falling off their shoulders, pooling around his-her elbows.

"Oh my, what have we here?" the person says, teasingly. You're fairly certain that voice is masculine, but you can't really tell; if it is, they're clearly trying to be feminine.

"Help me," you beg with a dying breath, and the redhead just laughs.

"But where would the fun in that be? You look so lovely there, all painted with red~" You can't believe this is the end, and that this is the psychotic person you are going to die with. "This town needs more red," he or she goes on, and you wish you had the strength to crawl away. "Such ugly, dull people with ugly, dull lives. A bit of scarlet would liven things up nicely!" You try an experimental push with your foot, but it's too late; you're lightheaded, unable to make your brain cooperate. Bollocks, you think. It's not proper for a person of your status (that is, not street trull), but you think it anyways. Apparently you are going to die anyways; what's another curse word? You certainly think the situation calls for it.

"Oh, do you think you're going to run away now? But we hardly know each other!" The strange person pretends to pout, then grins at you. You're startled to see that all of their teeth are incredibly sharp and pointed.

You wish death would hurry up already.

Or perhaps you are dead, and this is the bizarrity that the afterlife holds. You hope not. You'd rather wait for your spouse and kids in a perfect house or on a cloud or whatever heaven was supposed to be like. You're fairly sure you don't deserve this strange hell.

"I'll play nice in your last few minutes," the redhead simpers, and you wish they would leave. "My name is Grelle Sutcliffe, I'm a reaper."

You're dead, you decide. You're definitely dead. A reaper? Like _grim_ reaper? They've got to be kidding. Reapers don't exist. And if they did, they wouldn't be this flamboyantly homosexual (you're presuming, at this point, that you're dealing with a very gay male). So you are either dead, or he's stark raving mad, or some mixture of the two. Or perhaps _you_ have gone mad from the blood loss. At this point, you really don't care.

"Oh dear, you're running out of time!~" The man in crimson exclaims. "Let's just wrap this up, shall we?" Suddenly some strange tool is in his hands, and you are scared. You're not quite sure what it is, only that it looks sharp and lethal, it is loud, and the psychotic creature has it aimed at _you_. You slide your eyes closed. This is it. Your final moments and you're dying at the hands of a robber and a madman. Perfect.

You send a prayer up for your soul and those of your children and your spouse. You hope your daughter would get that Funtom rabbit she wanted.

And then... nothingness.

You were nobody, and now, you are a dead nobody.


End file.
